Just where the true mountains broke out into a pleasant medley of foothills, the stallion stopped to rest.

He nibbled a few mouthfuls of grass growing lush and rank on the edge of a watercourse, waded to the knees in a still pool and blotted out the star-images with the disturbance of his drinking, and then went back onto a hilltop to sleep.
It was full day before he rose and started on again, and to keep his strength for the next stage of the journey, he ate busily first on the lee side of a hill where the grass was thickest and tenderest.

Between mouthfuls he raised his head to gaze down on his new-found land.

It was a day of clouds, thin sheetings and dense cumulus masses sweeping on the west wind and breaking against the mountains.

Alcatraz could not see the crests over which he had climbed the night before, so thick were those breaking ranks of clouds, but the plateau beneath him was dotted with yellow sunshine and in the day it filled to the full the promise of the moonlit night.